CHAPTER IV.

Pale Disappointment! on whose anxious brow

Expectancy has deepened into pain;

Thou who hast pressed upon so many hearts

The burning anguish of those words--_in vain_;

Thy gloom is here; thy shadowy presence lies

Within the glory-light of those sad eyes!

Two years more had gone by since we glanced at Theresa last--years

fraught to her with the fulfillment of ambition, and golden with the

gifts of praise. Her name had become a familiar one to the lovers of

art, and her society was eagerly sought for by the most intellectual

men in one of our most refined cities. In the home of her artist

friend she had been as a daughter, and cordially welcomed into the

circles of talent and acquirement. It would have been well with her

had that measure of success satisfied her, could she have returned

then, without one hope turned into bitterness, to her early and

tranquil home--but it was not so to be; and on the death of her

friend, a year previous to this time, Theresa decided still to remain

in the city, and follow alone the exciting glories of her art. In the

meantime Amy's marriage had taken place; the cottage was deserted, and

Mrs. Germaine found a home with her younger daughter. It was Gerald's

wish that Theresa also should reside with them; but she had declined,

affectionately, though positively; and she was now an exile from those

who loved her best. Her engagements had proved profitable, she had

acquired much more than was necessary for her simple wants; and all

her surplus gainings were scrupulously sent to her mother. I, too, was

frequently remembered in her generous deeds, and many a valuable book,

far beyond my power to purchase, came with sweet words from the

cheerer of my old age.

But this state of things was too prosperous to last always--the crowd

does not permit without a struggle the continuance of such prosperity.

Gradually the tide of public approval changed; rivals spoke

slightingly of one who surpassed them; her impetuous words--and she

was frank almost to a fault--were misrepresented, and envying lips

whispered of the impropriety of her independent mode of life.

Flatterers grew more cautious, professing friends looked coldly, and,

one by one, her female acquaintances found various pretexts for

withdrawing their attentions. Theresa was not suspicious; it was long

before these changes were apparent to her, and even then she

attributed them to accident. Confident in her own purity of motive,

and occupied with her own engrossing pursuits, she had neither time

nor inclination for disagreeable speculations. She felt her refuge was

incessant employment; she dared not even yet allow herself leisure for

contemplation and memory. A volume of her poems had just been

published--its destiny filled her thoughts--for who cannot imagine the

trembling, fearing solicitude with which the young poet would send

forth her visions to the world? Her engagements in her profession,

too, were ceaseless, and her health began to fail under the effects of

a mode of life so constant in its labors, and so apart from the

refreshing influences usually surrounding girlhood. And was she happy?

Alas! she had often asked herself that question, and answered it with

tears; ambition has no recompense for tenderness, womanhood may not

lay aside its yearnings. Her letters to us contained no word of

despondency; she spoke more of what she thought than of what she felt.

Her heart had learned to veil itself; and yet, as I read her notes to

me, the suspicion would sometimes involuntarily come over me that she

was not tranquil, that her future looked to her more shadowy; and I

longed to clasp her once more to the bosom that had pillowed her head

in childhood, and bid her bring there her hoard of trial and care. She

was, by her own peculiar feelings banished from our midst; how could

she return, to dwell in Gerald's home, she who for years had striven

in solitude and silence to still memories of which _he_ made the

grief? But she was no pining, love-sick girl; the high and rare tone

of her nature gave her many resources, and imparted strength to battle

with gentler impulses. But it was a painful and unnatural conflict

between an ingenuous character and a taunting pride--a war between

thought and tenderness. Wo to the heart that dares such a struggle!

Aspiration may bring a temporary solace, excitement a momentary balm;

but never yet, in all the tear-chronicled records of genius, has woman

found peace in praise, or compensation in applause. It is enough for

her to obtain, in the dangerous arena of competition, a brief refuge,

a transient forgetfulness; love once branded with those words--_in

vain_, may win nothing more enduring this side of heaven.

It was the twilight of a whiter evening; the lamps were just beginning

to brighten the city streets, and the fire burned cheerfully in

Theresa's apartment. Various paintings, sketches, and books, were

scattered around, and on the table lay a miniature of Amy, painted

from memory. It depicted her, not in the flush of her early womanhood,

not in the gladness of her hope-tinted love, but as she was, years

ago, in her idolized infancy. The lamp-light shone full upon that

young, faultless face, brightening almost like life those smiling

lips, and the white brow gleaming beneath childhood's coronet of

golden hair.

The young artist was seated now in silent and profound

abstraction--for twilight is the time the past claims from the

present, and memory is summoned by silence. Theresa's feet rested on a

low footstool, her hands were clasped lightly together on her lap, and

she leaned back in the cushioned chair, in an attitude of perfect and

unstudied grace she would have delightedly sketched in another. Have

ever I described my favorite's appearance? I believe not; and yet

there was much in her face and figure to arrest and enchant younger

eyes than mine. I could not, if I would, delineate her features, for

I only recall their charm of emotion, their attractive variety of

sentiment. Her eyes were gray, with dark lashes, and their expression

was at once brilliant and melancholy, and the most spiritual I have

ever seen. Her hair was long and fair, with a tinge of gold glancing

through its pale-brown masses, as if sunbeams were woven in its

tresses. She was not above the average height, but the proportions of

her figure were peculiarly beautiful, and her movements and attitudes

had the indescribable gracefulness whose harmony was a portion of her

being. She looked even younger than she really was, and her dress,

though simple, was always tasteful and attractive, for her reverence

for the beautiful extended even to common trifles, and all about her

bespoke the elevating presence of intellectual ascendency. The glance

that once dwelt on her returned to her face instinctively--so much of

thought and feeling, of womanhood in its faculty to love and hope, of

affection in its power to endure and triumph, so much of genius in the

glory of its untested youth, lay written in lines of light on that

pale, maidenly brow. Ah, me! that I should remember her thus! As

Theresa sat there, she idly took a newspaper from the table to refold

it, and as she did so, her own name attracted her attention. It headed

a brief notice of her poems, which was doubtless written by some one

her success had offended--there are minds that cannot forgive a

fortunate rival. It was a cold, sarcastic, sneering review of her

book, penned in that tone of contemptuous irony, the most profaning to

talent, the most desecrating to beauty. There was neither justice nor

gentleness in the paragraph, but it briefly condemned the work, and

promised at some future period, a more detailed notice of its defects.

It was the first time that Theresa had felt the fickleness of popular

favor; and who does not know the morbid sensitiveness with which the

poet shrinks from censure? To have her fair imaginings thus degraded,

her glowing theories prostrated, the golden pinions of her fancy

dragged to the dust--were these things the compensation for thought,

and toil, and sacrifice? It was a dark wisdom to learn, one that would

cast a shade over all future effort--and disappointed and mortified,

Theresa threw down the paper, and wept those bitter tears which

failure teaches youth to shed.

An hour of painful reverie had passed, when the door of the apartment

was noiselessly opened, and with silent steps, the dark-robed figure

of a woman entered and approached Theresa.

"I have intruded on you most unceremoniously," said the stranger, in a

voice singularly soft and melodious, "and I have no apology to plead

but the interest I feel in youth and genius, and this privileged

garb;" and as Theresa glanced at her dress, she saw it was that of a

Sister of Charity. It was an attire she had grown familiar with,

during her abode at the convent, and the winning kindness usually

distinguishing its wearers, had invested it in her mind with pleasant

associations.

"You are welcome, nevertheless," replied Theresa, "for I know that in

admitting your sisterhood we often entertain angels unawares."

The new comer seated herself, and the young artist strove in vain to

recall her features; they were those of a stranger.

"You are personally unknown to me, Theresa," said the lady, after a

brief silence, "but your father was one of my earliest friends.

Nay--it matters not to ask my name; the one I then bore, is parted

with now, and I would not willingly speak it again; under a different

appellation I have been lowlier and happier."

"You knew my father, then," rejoined Theresa, eagerly, "in his younger

and more prosperous days. His loss I feel more keenly as my experience

increases; for I was too young at his death to appreciate in reality,

as I now do in memory, all his character's high, and generous, and

spiritual beauty."

"We met often in the gay world," replied the guest--and her words were

uttered less to Theresa than to herself--"and our acquaintance was

formed under circumstances which ripened into intimacy what might

otherwise have proved only one of those commonplace associations that

lightly link society together; but it is of yourself I would speak. I

have opportunities in the fulfillment of my duties of hearing and

seeing much that passes in the busy world about me; and I have been

prompted by the old memories still clinging around me, to proffer you

the counsel of a friend. Will you forgive me, if I address you

candidly and unreservedly?"

And then, as Theresa wonderingly granted the desired permission, she

proceeded gently to detail some of the efforts of malice, and to utter

words of kind warning to one who, enfolded within her own illusions,

saw nothing of the shadows gathering about her path.

"You are not happy, Theresa!" continued the sister; "I know too much

of woman's life to believe you are. I am aware of the motives from

which you act; and while I reverence your purity of heart, and the

pride which has tempted you to work out your own destiny, I easily

trace the weariness your spirit feels. I, too, have had my visions;

they are God's gift to youth, but I have lived sadly and patiently to

watch dream after dream fade away. I see you have forgotten me,

although I saw you frequently at the convent of ----; but I am not

surprised at your forgetfulness, for the nun's sombre veil shuts her

out alike from hearts and memories."

"Are you, too, then unhappy?" asked Theresa, as the low and musical

voice beside her trembled in its tone; "you, whose footsteps are

followed by blessings, whose life is hallowed by doing good? I have

long ago learned to doubt the peace of the cloister, but I have ever

loved to believe there was recompense in your more active career, and

that if happiness exists on earth, the Sisters of Charity deserve and

win it."

"In part, you are right," answered the nun, "but you have yet to

realize that the penalties of humanity are beyond mortal control; that

we cannot, by any mode of life, pass beyond their influence. All we

_can_ do, is prayerfully to acquire patient forbearance and upward

hope; many a heavy heart beats beneath a veil like this, and carries

its own woes silently within, while it whispers to others of promise

and rest." The visiter paused, and Theresa interrupted a silence that

began to be painful to both.

"I feel," she said, "that I have acted injudiciously in braving

remark, and in proudly dreaming I could shape out my own course. But

you, who seem to have divined my thoughts so truly, doubtless read

also the _one_ reason which renders my return home most depressing."

"I know it well," was the reply; and the speaker pressed Theresa's

trembling hand within her own, "but your prolonged stay here will be

fraught with continually increasing evils; and if you expect repose,

it cannot be here, where envy and detraction are rising against you.

We cannot sway the prejudices of society, Theresa; and in some

respects even the most gifted must submit to their decrees. And now,"

she said, as she rose to take leave, "I must bid you farewell. I have

followed an impulse of kindness in undertaking the dangerous task to

warn and counsel. If you will listen to one fatally versed in the

world's ways, you will cease to defy public opinion, and amid the more

tranquil scenes of your home, you will acquire a truer repose than

ever fame bestowed. In all probability we shall meet no more, yet I

would fain carry with me the consolation of having rescued from

confirmed bitterness of spirit, the child of a faithful friend, and

pointed a yearning heart to its only rest." And before Theresa could

reply, the door had closed, and the visiter was gone.

THERESA'S LETTER.

"My friend! the credulity is ended, the illusion is

over, and I shall return to you again. There are

reasons I need not mention now, which would render a

residence with my sister painful, and with my old

waywardness I would come to you, the kind sharer of my

young impulses, and to your home, the quiet scene of

my happiest days. I am listless and sick at heart; and

the hopes that once made my future radiant, appear

false and idle to my gaze. Success has bestowed but

momentary satisfaction, while failure has produced

permanent pain; and I would fain cease my restless

strivings, and be tranquil once more. This is no hasty

resolve; several weeks have elapsed since I was

prompted to it first; and I believe it is wiser to

submit than to struggle--to learn endurance, than to

strive for reward. In a few days more I shall be with

you, saddened and disheartened, and changed in all

things but in love and gratitude."

She had, indeed, changed since I saw her last, nearly three years

before. The world had wrought its work, hope had been crushed by

reality. Her health was evidently fatally affected, and her voice,

once so gay and joyous, was low and subdued. It was mournful to my

loving eyes to mark the contrast between the sisters now; Amy, in the

noiseless routine of domestic duties, found all her wishes satisfied;

she was rendered happy by trifles, and her nature demanded nothing

they could not offer. Without one rare mental endowment, or a single

lofty trait, she had followed her appointed path, a serene and

contented woman. A glance at the household circles around us, will

prove this contrast a common one; the most gifted are not the most

blessed--and the earth has no fulfillment for the aspirations that

rise above it.

And what of Theresa, the richly and fatally endowed, she who, with all

the faculties for feeling and bestowing gladness, yet wasted her youth

away; she who sadly tested the beautiful combination of genius with

womanhood, yet lavished her powers in vain--why need I trace the

passing away of one beloved so well? My task is finished; and I

willingly lay aside a record, written through tears. Wouldst thou know

more? There is a grave in yonder church-yard that can tell thee all!

SONNETS.

BY JAMES LAWSON.

I.--HOPE.

I mark, as April days serenely smile,

Clouds heaped on clouds in mountain-like array,

While radiant sunbeams with their summits play,

Gilding with gorgeous tints the mighty pile;

And earth partakes of every hue the while!

Oft have I felt on such a day as this,

The sudden shower down-pouring on my head,

Though in the distance all is loveliness.

Thither, in vain, with rapid step I've sped.

I liken this to Hope: although with sorrow

The heart is overcast, and dim the eye;

Delusive Hope--not present, ever nigh,

Presages gladness on a coming morrow,

And lures us onward, till our latest sigh.

II.--A PREDICTION.

The day approaches, when a mystic power,

Shall summon mute Antiquity, to tell

The buried glories of the long lost hour;

And she will answer the enchanter's spell--

Then shall we hear what wondrous things befell

When the young world existed in its prime.

The truths revealed will turn the wisest pale,

That ignorance so long abused their time.

Vainly may Error blessed Truth assail

With specious argument, and looking wise

Exult, as millions worship at her shrine;

Yet, in the time ordained, shall Truth arise

And walk in beauty over earth and skies,

While man in reverence bows before her power divine!

PHANTASMAGORIA.

BY JOHN NEAL.

I don't believe in night-caps. That is, I don't believe in stopping

the ears, in shutting the eyes, in sealing up the senses, nor in going

to sleep in the midst of God's everyday wonders. We are put here to

look about us. We are apprentices to Him whose workshop is the

universe. And if we mean to be useful, or happy, or to make others

happy, which, after all, is the only way of being happy ourselves, we

must do nothing blindfold. Our eyes and our ears must be always open.

We must be always up and doing, or, in the language of the day, _wide

awake_. We must have our wits about us. We must learn to use, not our

eyes and our ears only, but our understandings--our _thinkers_.

There is a diviner alchemy wanted, and there is room for a bolder and

a more patient spirit of investigation, amid the drudgery and bustle

of common life, than was ever yet employed, or ever needed, in

ransacking the earth for gems and gold, or the deep sea for pearls.

Would you shovel diamonds and rubies, or turn up "as it were fire,"

you have but to dig into and sift the rubbish that lies heaped up in

your very streets--or to drive the ploughshare through the busiest

places ever trodden by the multitude. You need not blast the

mountains, nor turn up the foundations of the sea, nor smelt the

constellations. You have but to open your eyes, and to look about you

with a thankful heart; and you will find no such thing as worthless

ore--no baseness unallied with something precious; with hidden virtue,

or with unchangeable splendor.

The golden air you breathe toward evening, after a bright, rattling

summer-shower--the golden motes you may see playing in the sunshine

with clouds of common dust, if you but take the trouble to lift your

eyes, when you are lying half asleep in your easy-chair, just after

dinner--are part and parcel of the atmosphere and the earth; and yet

have they fellowship with the stars, and with the light that trembleth

forever upon the wing of the cherubim. Be ye of the towering and the

steadfast upon earth, and these will be to you in the darkness of

midnight as revelations from the sky; as unforetold glimpses of the

Imperishable and the Pure that inhabit the Empyrean.

But, being one of those who go about the world for three score years

and ten, with their night-caps pulled over their eyes--and ears--you

don't believe a word of this. And when you are told with all

seriousness that there is room for more wonderful and comforting

transmutations, of the baser earth just under your window, or just

round the corner, than was ever dreamed of by the wisest of those who

have grown old among furnaces and crucibles and retorts; wearing their

lives away in a search after perpetual youth, and their substance in

that which sooner and more surely than "riotous living" impoverisheth

a man--the transmutation of the baser metals into gold--you fall a

whistling maybe--or beg leave to suggest the word _fudge_. If so, take

my word for it, like a pretty woman with the small-pox, the

probability is, you are very much to be _pitted_.

All stuff and nonsense! you say--downright rigmarole--can't for the

life of you understand what the fellow's driving at.

Indeed.

As sure as you are sitting there.

Well, then, we must try to convince you. One of the pleasantest things

for a man who _does_ believe in night-caps, you will grant me, though,

at the best, he may be nothing more than a bachelor, is to lie out in

the open air, on a smooth sloping hill-side, when the earth is

fragrant, and the wind south, on a long drowsy summer afternoon--with

his great-coat under him if the earth is damp--and with the long rich

grass bending over him, and the blossoming clover swinging between him

and a clear blue sky, starred all over with golden dandelions,

buttercups and white-weed--

Faugh!

One moment if you please--with golden dandelions, buttercups and

white-weed--

Poh!--pish!--Why don't you say with the dent-de-lion, the ranunculus

and the crysanthimum?

Simply because I prefer bumble-bees to humble-bees, and even to

honey-bees, notwithstanding the dictionaries, and never lie down in

the long rich grass, with a great-coat under me; and am not afraid of

catching cold though I may sit upon damp roses, or tread upon the

sweet-scented earth, or tumble about in the newly-mown hay----with my

children about me.

Children!----oh!----ah!--might have known you were not one of us--only

half a man therefore.

How so?

That you had a better-half somewhere, to which you belong when you are

at home.

In other words you might have known that I was no bachelor.

Precisely.

Sir! you are very obliging. And now, perhaps, I may be allowed to

finish the demonstration. I undertook to convince you, if you

remember, that every human being, with his eyes about him, has, under

all circumstances, and at all times, within his reach, and subject to

his order, a heap of amusement, a whole treasury of unappropriated

wisdom. And all I have asked of you thus far is to admit, that if a

man will but go forth into the solitary place and lie down, and

stretch himself out, and look up into the sky, and watch the flowers

and leaves pictured and playing there--provided he be not more than

half asleep, and has a duffel great-coat under him, water-proof shoes

and a snug umbrella within reach, and no fear of the rheumatism; he

may find it one of the pleasantest things in the world; though it may

happen that he has no idea of poetry, and cares for nothing on earth

beyond a pair of embroidered slippers, a warm, padded, comfortable

dressing-gown, or a snuff-colored cigar if at home; or a fishing-rod,

a doubtful sky, and a bit of a brook, all to himself, when he is out

in the open air. And in short, for I love to come to the point, (in

these matters,) all I ask of you, being a bachelor, is to admit--

I'll admit any thing, if you'll stop there.

Agreed. You admit, then, that an old bachelor, wedded to trout-fishing

and tobacco-smoke; familiar with nothing but whist, yarn stockings,

flannels and shooting-jackets; without the least possible relish for

landscape or color, for the twittering of birds, or the swarming of

bumble-bees and forest-leaves; with no sense of poetry, and a mortal

hatred of rigmarole, may nevertheless and notwithstanding--

Better take breath, sir.

May notwithstanding and nevertheless, I say, find something worth

looking at, on a warm summer afternoon, though he be lying half asleep

on his back, with the clover-blossoms and buttercups nodding over him;

to say nothing of thistle-tops, dandelions or white-weed--

I do--I do!--I'll admit any thing, as I told you before.

Well, then--in that case--I do not see what difficulty there would be

in supposing that _any_ man might find something to be good-natured

with _anywhere_.

Not so fast, if you please. Would you have it inferred, because an old

bachelor, whose comforts are few--and _far_ between!--and whose

habits--and opinions--are fixed forever, could put up with Nature for

a short summer afternoon, under the circumstances you mention--with a

great-coat under him, and a reasonable share of other comforts within

reach, that, _therefore_, anybody on earth, a married man, for

example, should find it a very easy thing to be happy _any_ where,

under _any_ circumstances?--even at home now, for instance, with his

wife and children about him?

Precisely. And now, sir, to convince you. If you will but place

yourself at an open window in the "leafy month of June," and watch the

play of her green leaves upon the busy countenances of men, as you may

in some of our eastern cities, and in most of our villages all over

the country, where the trees and the houses, and the boys and the

girls have grown up together, playfellows from the

beginning--playfellows with every thing that lives and breathes in the

neighborhood; or if you will but stand where you are, and look up into

the blue sky, and watch the clouds that are _now_ drifting, as before

a strong wind, over the driest and busiest thoroughfares of your

crowded city; changing from shadow to sunshine, and from sunshine to

shadow, every uplifted countenance over which they pass, you will

find yourself at the very next breath a wiser, a better, and a happier

man. You will undergo a transfiguration upon the spot? You will see a

mighty angel sitting in the sun. You will hear the rush of wings

overshadowing the whole firmament. And, take my word for it, you will

be _so_ much better satisfied with yourself! But mind though--never do

this in company.

Beware lest you are caught in the fact. They will set you down for a

lunatic, a contributor to the magazines, or a star-gazer--if you

permit them to believe that you can see a single hairsbreadth beyond

your nose, or a single inch further by lifting your eyes to Heaven

than by fixing them steadfastly upon the earth. One might as well be

overheard talking to himself; or be caught peeping into a letter just

handed him by a sweet girl he has been dying to flirt with; but, for

reasons best known to himself--and his wife--durst not, although

perfectly satisfied in his own mind, from her way of looking at him,

when she handed him the letter, that she would give the world to have

him see it without her knowledge; and that either she did not know he

was a married man--or was willing to overlook that objection.

Tut, tut! my boy--you will never coax me into the trap, though I admit

your cleverness, by contriving to let me understand, as it were by

chance, what are regarded everywhere as the privileges of the married.

Permit me to finish, will you?

With all my heart!

But pleasant as all these things are--the green fields and the blue

sky, the ripple of bright water, and the changeable glories of a

landscape in mid-summer; or the upturned countenances of men, looking

for signs in the heavens, when they have ships at sea--or wives and

children getting ready for a drive--or new hats and no umbrellas--or

houses afire, which may not happen to be over-insured--a pleasanter

thing by far it is to sit by the same window, when the summer is over,

and the clouds have lost their transparency, and go wandering heavily

athwart the sky, and the green leaves are no more, and the songs of

the water are changed, and the very birds have departed, and watch by

the hour together whatever may happen to be overlooked by all the rest

of the world; the bushels of dry leaves that eddy and whirl about your

large empty squares, or huddle together in heaps at every sheltered

corner, as if to get away from the wind; the changed livery of the

shops--the golden tissues of summer, the delicately-tinted shawls, and

gossamer ribbons, and flaunting muslins, woven of nobody knows

what--whether of "mist and moonlight mingling fitfully," or of sunset

shadows overshot with gold, giving way to gorgeous velvet, and fur,

and sumptuous drapery glowing and burning with the tints of autumn,

and, like distant fires seen through a fall of snow in mid-winter,

full of comfort and warmth; and all the other preparations of

double-windows and heavy curtains, and newly invented stoves, that

find their own fuel for the season and leave something for next year;

and porticoes that come and go with the cold weather, blocking up

your path and besetting your eyes at every turn, with signs and hints

of "dreadful preparation."

Go to the window, if you are troubled in spirit; if the wind is the

wrong way; if you have been jilted or hen-pecked--no matter which--or

if you find yourself growing poorer every hour, and all your wisest

plans, and best-considered projects for getting rich in a hurry turned

topsy-turvy by a change in the market-value of bubbles warranted never

to burst; or if you have a note to pay for a man you never saw but

once in your life, and hope never to see again--to the window with

you! and lean back in your chair with a disposition to be pleased, and

watch the different systems of progression--or, in plain English, the

_walk_ of the people going by. A single quarter of an hour so spent

will put you in spirits for the day, and furnish you with materials

for thought, which, well-husbanded, may last you for a twelvemonth;

yea, abide with you for life, like that wisdom which is better than

fine gold, and more precious than rubies.

Well, you have taken my advice; you are at the window. Now catch up

your pen and describe what you see, _as you see it;_ or take your

pencil if you are good for any thing in that way, and let us see what

you can do. A free, bold, happy and _faithful_ sketch of that which in

itself would be worthless, or even loathsome, shall make your fortune.

Morland's pigs and pig-styes, on paper or canvas, were always worth

half a hundred of the originals. One of Tenier's inside-out pictures

of a village feast, with drunken boors--not worth a groat apiece when

alive--would now fetch its weight in gold three times over.

Look you now. There goes a man with a large bundle under his arm, tied

up in a yellow bandanna handkerchief, faded and weather-worn, and

looking as if ready to burst--the bundle I mean. What would you give

to know the history of that bundle and what there is in it? Observe

the man's eye, the swing of his right arm--the carriage of his

body--the dip of his hat. You would swear, or might if your

conscience, or your habits as a gentleman, would let you, that he was

a proud and a happy fellow, though you never saw his face before in

all your life. The tread of his foot is enough--the very swing of his

coat-tail as he clears the corner. It is Saturday night, and he is

carrying the bundle home to his own house--of that you may be sure.

And you may be equally sure that whatever else there may be in it,

there is nothing for him to be ashamed of, and _therefore_ nothing for

the man himself. My notion is, that he has bought a ready-made cloak

for his wife, without her knowledge, or got a friend to choose the

cloth and be measured for it, who will be found at his fire-side when

he gets home, holding forth upon the comfort of such an outside

garment in our dreadful winters, with a perseverance which leads the

good woman of the house to suspect her neighbor of being better off

than herself, in one particular at least, for the coming Sabbath. But

just now the door opens--the gossiping neighbor springs up with a

laugh--the bundle is untied--the children scream, and the wife jumps

about her husband's neck as if he had been absent a twelvemonth.

Where!--where!

Can't you see them for yourself! Can't you see the fire-light flash

over the newly-papered walls! can't you hear the children laugh as

mother swings round with her new cloak--scattering the ashes, and

almost puffing out their only lamp, which she has set upon the floor

to see how the garment hangs! and now she drops into a chair. Take my

word for it, sir, that is a very worthy woman--and the man himself is

a Washingtonian.

What man?

What man! Why the man that just turned the corner, with a great yellow

bundle under his arm.

Indeed! you know him then?

Never saw his face in all my life. But stay--what have we here? Get

your paper ready! Here comes a thick-set fellow, in a blue

round-about, with his hat pulled over his eyes, and one hand in his

trowsers' pocket--poor fellow! There he goes! But why one hand? He had

his reasons for it, I'll warrant ye, if the truth were known. He

walked by with bent knees, you observed, and with a most unpromising

stoop. He was feeling for his last four-pence; and found a hole in his

pocket. Can't you read the whole story in the man's gait?--in the

slow, sullen footfall--in the clutch of his fingers--in the stiffened

elbow, and the bent knees?

Another Washingtonian, perhaps?

No indeed! nothing of the sort. Had he been a Washingtonian, he would

have found something more than a hole in his pocket when he had got

through his week's work, and was beginning to find his way back to his

little ones.

Well, well, have it so, if you like; but what say you to the couple

you see there?

Stop!--that large woman, leading a child with a green veil--and the

other passing her in a hurry without lifting her eyes, and the moment

she has got by turning and looking after her, as if there were

something monstrous in the cast of that bonnet--a very proper bonnet

of itself--or in the color of that shawl--of gold and purple and

scarlet and green--both were but just entering upon the field of

vision as you spoke, and now both have vanished forever! And lo! a

tall man of a majestic presence, with a little black dog at his

heels--the veriest cur you ever saw! What must be the nature of such

companionship? Look! look! there goes another--a fashionably dressed

young man--followed by two or three more--intermixed with women and

children--and now they go trooping past by dozens! leaving you as

little time to note their peculiarities as you would have before the

table of a camera obscura, set up in the middle of Broadway at the

busiest season of the year. Let us breathe a little. And now the

current changes--the groups are smaller--the intervals longer--and if

we can do nothing else, we may watch their step and carriage, the play

of colors, and the whimsical motion of their arms and legs while they

go hurrying by, these phantoms of the hour. And then, what a world of

enjoyment just for the mere trouble of looking out of a window! Can

it be a matter of surprise that, in countries where it is not

permitted to women to look at the show in this way, or even to appear

at the window, a substitute should be found by so arranging mirrors as

to represent within their very bed-chambers whatever happens in the

street below?

But the business of the day is nearly over. The chief thoroughfare is

well nigh deserted and we may now begin to dwell upon the

peculiarities of here and there one, as the laggards go loitering by,

some nearer and some further off, but all with a look of independence

and leisure not to be mistaken. And why? They have money in their

purses--the happy dogs--or what is better than money, character and

credit, or experience, or health and strength, and a willingness to

oblige.

Not so fast, if you please. What say you to that man with the pale

face and coal-black hair?

Let me see. What do I say of that man? Do you observe that slouched

hat, and old coat buttoned up to the chin?--the dangling of that old

beaver glove, and the huge twisted club--the slow and stately pace,

and the close fitting trowsers carefully strapped down over a pair of

well blacked shoes without heels, and therefore incapable of being

mistaken for boots.

There is no mistaking that man. He has seen better days; the world has

gone hard with him of late, and he is a--Ah! that lifting of the head

as he turns the corner! that gleam of sunshine, as he recovers and

touches his hat, after bowing to that fine woman who just brushed him

in passing, shows that he is still a gentleman; and, of course, can

have nothing to fear, whatever may happen to the rest of the world.

Fifty to one, if you dare, that he has just bethought himself of the

bankrupt law, of a bad debt which he begins to have some hope of, or

of the possibility of making up by his knowledge of the world for what

he wants in youth, should he think it worth his while to follow up the

acquaintance. Ah!--gone! He disappeared, adjusting his neckcloth, and

smiling and looking after the handsome widow, as if debating within

himself whether the advantage he had obtained by that one look were

really worth pursuing.

What ho! another! A vulgar phantom this--a fellow that has nothing to

do. After hurrying past a couple of women, hideously wrapped up, and

beyond all doubt, therefore, uglier than the witches of Macbeth, he

stops and leers after them--not stopping altogether, but just enough

to keep his head turned over his right shoulder--and then walks away,

muttering to himself so as to be heard by that ragged boy there, who

stands staring after him with both hands grasping his knees, and with

_such_ a look!

Another yet--and yet another shape! and both walking with their legs

bent; both taking long strides, and both finding their way, with the

instinct of a blood-hound, never looking up, nor turning to the right

or left in their course. Are they partners in trade, or rivals? Do

they follow the same business, or were they school-fellows together,

some fifty years ago; and are they still running against each other

for a purse they will never find till they have reached the grave

together. See! they have cleared that corner, side by side; and now

they are stretching away at the same killing pace, neck and neck,

toward the Exchange. Of course, they live in the same neighborhood;

they are fellow-craftsmen, they have reputations at stake, and are

determined never to yield an inch--whatever may happen. But why

wouldn't they look up? Was there nothing above worth minding--nothing

on the right hand nor on the left of their course, worthy a passing

thought? _Whither are they going?_ And what will they have learnt or

enjoyed, and what will they have to say for themselves when they reach

the end of their course?

And that other man, with arms akimbo, a dollar's worth of flour in a

bag, flung over his shoulder--why need he strut so--and why doesn't he

walk faster? Has he no sympathy for the rest of the world, not he; or

does he only mean to say, in so many words, _that_ for such weather!

and _that_ for every fellow I see, who isn't able to carry home a

dollar's worth of flour to his family every Saturday night! Does he

believe that nobody else understands the worth and sweetness of a

home-baked loaf?

And that strange looking woman there, with her muff and parasol, her

claret-colored cloak, with a huge cape, and that everlasting green

veil! What business, now, has such a woman above ground--at this

season of the year? Would she set your teeth chattering before the

winter sets in? And what on earth does she carry that sun-shade for,

toward nightfall, about the last of October--is the woman beside

herself?

But she is gone; and in her stead appear three boys, who, but for the

season of the year, might be suspected of birdnesting. They are all of

a size--all of an age, or thereabouts--and all dressed alike, save

that one wears a cloth cap, and the others fur. Yet, like as they are

in age and size, and general appearance, anybody may see at a glance

that one is a well-educated boy, and a bit of a gentleman--perhaps

with spending money for the holydays, while the other two are clumsy

scapegraces. Watch them. Observe how the two always keep together, and

how, as they go by the windows of that confectionary-shop, first one

lags a little in the rear, and then the other, till they have stopped

and wheedled their companion into a brief display of his pocket-money.

The rogues!--how well they understand his character! See! he has

determined to have it his own way, in spite of their well-managed

remonstrances and suggestions; and now they all enter the shop

together--he foremost, of course, with a swagger not to be

misunderstood for a moment. And now they have sprung the trap! and the

poor boy is a beggar!

But who are they? Judge for yourself? Do they not belong, of course,

to the same neighborhood? Have they not an air of good-fellowship,

which cannot be counterfeited--a something which explains why they are

always together, and why they are all dressed alike? How they loiter

along, now that they have squeezed him as dry as an orange, as if

they were just returning from a long summer-day's tramp in the

wilderness after flowers and birds-nests--the flowers to tear to

pieces, and the birds-nests to set up in the school for other boys to

have a _shy_ at. By to-morrow, they will be asunder for months--he at

school afar off, and they at leap-frog or marbles. And after a few

years, they will be forgotten by him, and he remembered by them--such

being the difference in their early education--as the boy they were

allowed to associate with, and to fleece at pleasure when he was

nobody but Tom, Dick, or Harry, and thought himself no better than

other folks.

But enough--let us leave the window. It is growing dark; and if you

are not already satisfied, nothing ever will satisfy you, that the

great mass of mankind have ears, but they hear not; and eyes, but

they see not--and go through the world with their night-caps pulled

over both. Poor simpletons!--what would they think of a man who should

run for a wager with both feet in one shoe. Are you satisfied?

I am--of one thing.

And what is that?

Why, that a magazine-writer may coin gold out of any thing--out of the

golden atmosphere of a summer-evening--or the golden motes he sees

playing in the sunshine, on the best possible terms, with the common

dust of the trampled highway--or the golden blossoms that fill the

hedges--in a word, that with him it should be mere child's play to

"extract sunshine from cucumbers."

THE OAK-TREE.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

I.

Beautiful oak-tree! near my father's dwelling,

Alone thou standest on the sloping green;

In size, in strength, all other trees excelling--

The noblest feature of the rural scene.

Whether with foliage crowned in Summer's glory,

Or stripped of leaves in winter's icy reign,

Grandly thou speakest an unchanging story

Of power and beauty, not bestowed in vain.

I looked upon thee with deep veneration,

When first my soul acknowledged the sublime,

And felt the might and grandeur of creation,

In all that longest braves the shock of Time.

Centuries ago, an acorn, chance-directed,

Fell on the spot, and then a sapling sprung,

From driving winds and beating storms protected

By that kind Heaven which guards the frail and young.

And prouder height with greater age acquiring,

Fair as when suns on thy first verdure smiled,

Thou standest now, a forest lord, aspiring

O'er all thy peers from whom thou art exiled.

Beautiful oak-tree! my most pleasant gambols

Were, with my dear companions, always played

Beneath thy branches, and from farthest rambles

Wearied, we came and rested in thy shade.

Morning and evening, Falls, and Springs, and Summers,

Here was our Freedom, here we romped and sported;

And here by moonlight, happiest of all comers,

In thy dark shadow lovers sat and courted.

And here, when snow in frozen billows bound thee,

Like a white ocean deluging the land,

And smaller trunks, or near or far, were round thee

Like masts of vessels sunken on the strand,

We climbed high up thy naked boughs, enchanted,

Shaking whole sheets of spotless canvas down,

And, by keen frosts and breezes nothing daunted,

Hailed the slow sledges from the neighboring town.

Ah! flown delights! ah! happiness departed!

What have I known like you, since, light and free,

And undefiled, and bold and merry-hearted,

I used to frolic by the old oak-tree!

II.

Long years ago I left my father's mansion,

Through many realms, in various climates roamed,

Speeding away o'er all Earth's wide expansion,

Where icebergs glittered, and where torrents foamed.

From pole to pole, across the hot Equator,

Restless as sea-gulls whirling o'er the deep;

From Snowden's crown to AEtna's fiery crater,

From Indian valley to Caucasian steep;

From Chimborazo, loftiest of all mountains

Trod by man's foot, to Nova Zembla's shore;

From Iceland Hecla's ever-boiling fountains,

To where Cape Horn's incessant surges roar;

From France's vineyards to Antarctic regions,

From England's pastures to Arabia's sands,

From the rude North, with her unnumbered legions,

To the sweet South's depopulated lands;

O'er all those scenes, or beautiful or splendid,

Which man risks wealth, and peace, and life to see,

I roved at will--but all my journeys ended,

Returned to gaze upon the old oak-tree.

But, ah! beneath those broad, outreaching branches,

What other forms, what different feet had strayed,

Since I, a youth, went forth to dare the chances

Which adverse Fortune in my path had laid.

Past my meridian, sinking toward the season

When Hope's horizon is with clouds o'ercast,

When sportive Fancy yields to sober Reason,

I came and questioned the remembered Past.

I came and stood by that oak-tree so hoary,

Forgetting all the intervening years,

Stood on that turf, so blent with childhood's story,

And poured my heart out in one gush of tears.

I had returned to claim my father's dwelling,

Borne like a waif on Time's returning tide--

Summoned I came, by one brief missive telling

That all I left behind and loved had died.

Wiser and sadder than in life's bright morning,

As softly fall the sun's last rays on me,

As when I saw their early glow adorning

The emerald foliage of this old oak-tree.

PAULINE GREY.

OR THE ONLY DAUGHTER.

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC.

(_Concluded from page_ 233.)

The result of Mr. Grey's investigations _was_ decidedly unfavorable.

He had much difficulty, in the first place, in obtaining any distinct

information at all, most people hating to commit themselves in such a

matter. He was generally answered evasively, and one or two merely

said, "they knew no good of him."

A friend, however, undertook to make the inquiries, and with much

better success than Mr. Grey could do; and he learnt "that young

Wentworth was wild, very wild--much in debt, with no business habits;

and, in short, that there was not a father in town who would be

willing to give his daughter to him."

Mr. Grey, of course, considered this information as decisive, and

communicated it to his wife. She received it with mingled feelings of

relief and apprehension. There was no danger now of Pauline's having

him, but she dreaded telling her so; not that she for a moment doubted

Pauline's acquiescence in the decision, about which she herself

supposed there could be no two opinions, but only the burst of grief

with which she would receive it.

But never was Mrs. Grey more mistaken. Pauline saw nothing in the

information that her father had received to change her opinions or

feelings at all; "that he was wild--she knew that--he had told her so

himself. He had been very wild before he knew her--and in debt--yes,

he had told her that too. He had never had any motive to apply himself

to business before," and Pauline seemed to think his not having done

so as a matter of choice or taste, only showed his superior

refinement. In short, she adhered as resolutely to her determination

as ever.

What ideas did she, poor girl, attach to the word "wild;" something

very vague, and not disgraceful at all. Perhaps a few supper parties,

and a little more champagne than was quite proper. She did not know,

could not know, the bearing of the term; and as to being in debt, that

conveyed little more to her mind. If he owed money it could easily be

paid. She knew no more of the petty meanness of small sums borrowed,

and little debts contracted every where, than she knew of the low

tastes involved in the word "wild."

Mrs. Grey was in despair. But here Mr. Grey interposed. He had never

exerted his authority before, but never doubted he had the power when

he had the will. He forbade Pauline to think of him.

He might as well have forbade the winds to blow. Pauline vehemently

declared she would marry him, and wept passionately; and finally

exhausted by the violence of her emotions, went to bed sick.

She kept her room for the next week, wept incessantly, refused to eat,

except when absolutely forced to, and gave way to such uncontrolled

passion, as soon told upon her slight frame, always delicate.

Mrs. Grey was alarmed; but Mr. Grey, not having seen Pauline since his

decision had been communicated to her, was very firm.

"After the first burst was over, Pauline," he said, "would return to

her senses."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Grey, "go up stairs and see her yourself;

perhaps you can induce her to listen to reason."

And Mr. Grey went to Pauline. He had been prepared to see her looking

pale and sad, but he was not prepared for the change that a week's

strong excitement had wrought in Pauline's appearance. Her large,

black eyes looked larger, and her face smaller from the deadly

paleness of her fair skin. Mr. Grey was, indeed, shocked; and either a

slight cold, or the nervousness induced by weakness, had brought on

the little hacking cough they always so dreaded to hear.

He was much moved. He could not see his child die before his eyes; and

it ended in Pauline's tears prevailing, and bringing him to listen to

her views, instead of his inducing her to listen to reason. He

promised he would do what he could--and once having been brought to

hesitate, the natural impatience and decision of his character led him

to the very point Pauline desired, of settling the matter as fast as

possible; for "if it was to be, let it be done at once," he said.

Mr. Wentworth was recalled. He was all protestations and promises; and

Mr. Grey, with a heavy heart, "hoped it might turn out better than

they anticipated."

Pauline, at any rate, was restored to present happiness, and her

doating parents had the immediate satisfaction of seeing her once

again her radiant self, full of joy and gratitude, and confident of

the future as secure of the present.

The gay world in which they lived were very much surprised at the

announcement of the engagement; at Mr. and Mrs. Grey's consenting to

it; and even confounded at hearing that a day--and an early day,

too--was actually named for the marriage.

"Is not that extraordinary?" said Mrs. Livingston. "One would really

think they were afraid the young man would slip through their fingers.

How anxious some people are to marry their daughters!"

"How absurd!" said another; "for I am told they don't like it, as, of

course, they cannot. And she is so young, that if they delayed it a

little while, another season, with the admirers she is sure to have,

would put it out of her head."

Lookers on are very wise; and it's a pity actors cannot be equally so.

No doubt this would have been the right, and probably the successful

course. But Mrs. Grey had no longer any spirit to oppose Pauline, and

Mr. Grey, in his impatient agony, seemed to think the sooner it was

over the better.

Foolish, unhappy father. He was only riveting his own misery.

But Pauline was radiant. Deep in the excitement of wedding

preparations and invitations--for her parents listlessly acquiesced in

every thing she asked; and she meant to be married "in pomp, in

triumph, and in revelry."

The mornings were spent in shopping, and one could scarcely go into a

store where they did not meet Mrs. Grey and Pauline looking over

delicate laces, exquisite embroidery, and expensive silks, Pauline's

bright face looking brighter than ever, and her youthful voice musical

in its gay happiness; and Mrs. Grey looking so dejected, and speaking

in the lifeless tones of one who has a heavy sorrow settled on her

heart.

Two short months were rapidly consumed in all the arrangements usually

made on such occasions--and the wedding day arrived.

Never had Pauline looked so beautiful. The emotions called up by the

occasion softened without dimming the brilliancy of her usual beauty.

The veil of finest lace, the wreath of fresh and rare exotics, the

jeweled arms, all lent their aid to render her surpassingly lovely.

"Pray God it turn out better than we can hope!" was all Mr. Grey could

say, to which his wife replied by a sigh, which seemed the fitting

response to a prayer uttered with so little hope.

CHAPTER III.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey had made it a condition with Mr. Wentworth that they

were not to lose Pauline, and consequently it was arranged that the

young couple were to live at home.

Scarcely were the wedding festivities over before Mrs. Grey remarked

that Pauline was nervous when her husband was alone with her father

and herself; and that when he entered into conversation, she always

joined in hastily, and contrived to engross the greater part of it

herself. She evidently did not want him to talk more than could be

helped. But much as she shielded him, the truth could not be

concealed. Little as Mr. and Mrs. Grey had expected from Wentworth, he

fell painfully below their expectations. He was both weak and

ignorant--ignorant to a remarkable degree, for one occupying his

position in society. It only showed how he had turned from every

advantage offered him by education. His sentiments, too, were common;

every thing stamped him as a low-minded, coarse-feeling young man--at

least they feared so. He might improve. Pauline's influence might do

something.

But was Pauline beginning to be at all alive to the truth as it was?

Mrs. Grey feared so; but she could not ascertain. Pauline was

affectionate and tender, but not frank with her mother. Mrs. Grey,

like most mothers, who, to tell the truth, are not very judicious on

this point, would have led Pauline to talk of her husband; but here,

she knew not how, Pauline baffled her. She always spoke, and spoke

cheerfully and respectfully, of Mr. Wentworth, but in such a general

manner, that Mrs. Grey could come to no satisfactory conclusion either

way.

The truth was that though Pauline was very young, her character was

developing fast. Her heart and her mind were now speaking to her

trumpet-tongued--and their voice was appalling.

Her husband was daily revealing himself in his true character to her;

and the idol of her imagination was fast coming forth as an idol of

clay. But though Pauline was willful, she had other and great and

noble qualities. An instinct told her at once that no complaint of her

husband must pass her lips. Pride whispered that she had chosen her

own lot, and must bear it, and love still murmured, "Hope on--all is

not yet lost." But she grew pale and thin, and though she was

animated, and talked, perhaps, more than ever, Mrs. Grey imagined, for

she could not tell to a certainty, that her animation was forced, and

her conversation nervous.

Mr. Wentworth seemed soon to weary of the calm quiet of the domestic

circle, for of an evening he was beginning to take his hat and go to

the club, staying at first but for an hour or so, and gradually later

and later.

"I am not going up stairs yet, mamma," said Pauline, "I will sit up

for Mr. Wentworth."

"Robert will let him in, Pauline," replied Mrs. Grey, anxiously. "You

are looking pale, my child--you had better go up."

"Very well," answered Pauline, quietly; and her mother satisfied,

retired to her own room, supposing Pauline had done the same. But

Pauline had let the man sit up for her husband the night before; and

she had heard her mother, as she happened to be passing in the hall

when Mrs. Grey did not see her, finding fault with him for being late

in the morning; to which the servant answered, in extenuation, that he

had been up so late for Mr. Wentworth that he had over-slept himself.

"How late was it, Robert?" asked Mrs. Grey, in a low voice.

"Near two, ma'am," replied the man.

"Near two!" repeated Mrs. Grey, as if to herself--and a heavy sigh

told Pauline better than any comments could have done what was passing

in her mother's mind. She determined that henceforth no servant should

have her husband in his power again. So when she had heard her

mother's door close for the night, she rang for the man and said,

"Robert, you can go to bed now, I will sit up for Mr. Wentworth."

"My child, how thin and pale you grow," Mrs. Grey would say,

anxiously; "and that little cough of yours, too, Pauline--how it

distresses me. What is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, mother," Pauline would reply, cheerfully; "I always cough a

little, you know, if I am not well. And if I am looking paler and

thinner than usual, that is to be expected--is it not?"

"I suppose so," Mrs. Grey would reply, half satisfied for the present

that perhaps Pauline had truly accounted for her wan looks.

Ah! little did she know of the late hours of harassing watching that,

night after night, Pauline spent waiting the coming in of her truant

husband; and less did she know of the agonized feelings of the young

wife, as she read in the glassy eye and flushed brow of her husband,

the meaning of that once insignificant word "wild," which now she was

beginning to apprehend in all its disgusting reality.

Pauline's spirit sometimes rose, and she remonstrated with Wentworth;

but his loud tones subdued her at once. Not that she yet feared him,

but dreaded lest those tones should reach her mother's ear. The one

absorbing feeling, next to bitter disappointment, was concealment.

"Mother," she said, one day, "I want you to listen to what I have to

say--and do not reject my proposition until you have fully considered

it. Mr. Wentworth wants to go to housekeeping."

"To housekeeping, Pauline!" exclaimed Mrs. Grey. "Why, Pauline, Mr.

Wentworth promised to remain with us--"

"Yes, mother," interrupted Pauline, "and will keep his promise if you

say so. But what I wish is, that you should not oppose it."

"What is there, my child," said Mrs. Grey, "that he has not, or that

you have not here, that you can have in your own house. Only say it,

Pauline, and any thing, every thing either you or he wish, shall be

done."

Pauline was affected to tears by her mother's tone and manner, and she

said,

"Dearest mother, there is nothing that love and tenderness can do,

that you and my father have not done. Do not think that I am

insensible or ungrateful. Oh, no! never was your love so important to

me as now--" she here checked herself. "But, mother, what I would

say--what I think, is, that Mr. Wentworth, that no man can feel

perfectly at ease in another's house; and that a young man, perhaps,

hardly feels his responsibility as the head of a family, while living

at home; that his respectability before the world--in short, I think,

I _feel_, that it would be better for Mr. Wentworth if he were in his

own house."

And beyond this last intimation Pauline could not be drawn, although

Mrs. Grey did her best to pursue the theme and draw her out. She only

said, "Well, mother, think it over, and talk to father about it."

And Mrs. Grey did talk to her husband, and found, to her surprise,

that he agreed with Pauline.

"I believe she is right," he said. "Wentworth and ourselves cannot

live much longer together. I believe it will be for our mutual

happiness that we be partially separated."

"If I were only satisfied that she is satisfied," urged Mrs. Grey.

"But Pauline is so reserved about her husband."

"And Pauline is right, my dear," replied Mr. Grey, with deep emotion.

"I honor her for it. My poor child has drawn a sad lot, and nobly is

she bearing it. We must aid her and comfort her as we can, Alice; and

if she wills that we be deaf and blind, deaf and blind we must be. God

bless her!" he added, fervently. "My angel daughter."

And so arrangements on the most liberal scale were made for Pauline's

separate establishment; for, to tell the truth, it was rather

Pauline's wish than her husband's. She thought that if they were

alone, she could exert some influence over him, which now she was

afraid of attempting lest it might bring exposure with it. Pauline had

borne much, but not from fear. She had a brave, high spirit. She did

not tremble before Wentworth; but both pride and love--yes, love even

for him, and deep, surpassing love for her parents, led her to adopt

her present course.

Poor child! she did not know she was only withdrawing herself from

their protection.

* * * * *

Pauline had not been long at housekeeping before she found it involved

with it a source of domestic unhappiness she had not anticipated; and

that was in the character and manners of the associates who her

husband now brought home with him, and who at her father's house she

had been protected from seeing.

Wentworth had the outward appearance and manner of a gentleman,

whatever he might be in point of fact; but there were those among his

friends, and one in particular, a Mr. Strickland, from whom Pauline

instinctively shrank, as being neither a gentleman nor a man of

principle. She looked upon him, too, as leading Wentworth astray; and

at any rate felt he was a person her husband had no right to bring

into her presence. She remonstrated with him more than once on the

subject, and he warmly defended his friend, and said her suspicions

were as unfounded as unwarrantable, and finally got in a passion, and

declared he would bring whom he chose to his own house. Pauline firmly

declared that he might do that, but that _she_ was equally mistress of

her own actions, and would _not_ receive Mr. Strickland as an

acquaintance. If he chose to ask him there, she would retire as he

entered.

Wentworth was very angry--quite violent in fact; but Pauline remained

unshaken--and he left the house in great displeasure.

He did not return until late. Pauline had given him up, and just

ordered dinner when he entered. As he came in he said loudly, "Walk

in, Strickland;" and there was something in the eye of both, as they

entered, that told Pauline that their quarrel had been communicated by

her husband to his friend, for Strickland's expression was both

foolish and insolent; and Wentworth evidently had been put up to brave

it out.

Pauline colored deeply, and rose to leave the room just as the

folding-doors of the dining-room were thrown open. Wentworth hastily

stepped forward, and taking her arm with a grasp, the firmness of

which he himself was unaware at the time, said,

"Take your place at the table."

The print of his fingers was left on her delicate wrist as he withdrew

his hand; but Pauline was too proud to subject herself to further

indignity in the presence of a stranger; and though she read triumph

in his insolent eye, she took her place silently at the head of the

table.

Wentworth drank freely of wine, for he was evidently laboring under

both embarrassment and excitement. The conversation was such as to

cause the blood to mount to Pauline's temples more than once, but she

firmly kept her seat until the cloth was removed and the servants

withdrew, and then she rose.

Wentworth said, "You are not going yet!" but there was a look in her

eye, as she turned it on him, that silenced all further remonstrance

on his part. A coarse laugh she heard as she closed the door, whether

of derision or triumph she could not tell; but she went to her own

room, and double-locked the doors, and paced the floor in great

excitement until she heard the offending stranger leave.

Then she descended to the parlor, looking pale, but her bright eye

clear, and resolve in every lineament. Wentworth was alone, standing

on the rug, with his back to the fire as she entered.

He evidently quailed as he encountered her full glance, but instantly

made an effort, and attempted to bluster it out.

She approached close up to him before she spoke, and then said in a

clear, low voice.

"I am not come to reproach or to listen to recriminations, but to tell

you I never will submit to such insult again." And baring her delicate

wrist where the mark of his fingers was now turning black, said,

"Should my father see that, you well know the consequence. I have

nothing more to say, but remember it," and passing through the room,

she left him speechless with contending feelings, shame predominating

perhaps over the others, and retired once more to her room.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey dined with Pauline the next day, and Wentworth did

his best to behave himself well. He was attentive and respectful to

them, affectionate to Pauline.

She looked very pale, however, though she made an effort to be

cheerful and animated. At dinner the loose sleeve of her dress falling

back as she raised her hand, her mother exclaimed, "Oh, Pauline, what

is the matter with your wrist?"

Glancing slightly at her husband, who obviously changed color and

looked uneasy, she said quietly, as she drew her bracelet over the

dark stains, "I struck it and bruised it." Wentworth's brow cleared,

and there was a look of grateful affection in his eye which Pauline

had not seen for many a day.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey returned home better satisfied with their son-in-law

than they had been almost since his marriage. So little often do the

nearest friends know of what is going on in the hearts of those

dearest to them.

We will not trace Mr. Wentworth's career more closely. It is a common

one--that of a "wild" young man settling into a dissipated one. Mr.

Grey heard occasionally who his associates were; and he knew them to

be men without character, a kind of gentlemen "blacklegs." He heard

intimations, too, of his habits, and intemperance was leaving its

traces in his once rather handsome countenance.

But from Pauline came no murmur. And soon the birth of a daughter

seemed to absorb all her feelings, and opened, they trusted, an

independent source of happiness for their unhappy child.

Pauline had hoped that the birth of her infant might effect some

favorable change in her husband's conduct. But here again she was open

to a new disappointment. "He hated girls," he said. "If it had been a

fine boy, it would not have been so bad."

Pauline sighed, and as she pressed her darling to her heart, thanked

God in silence that it was not a son, who might by a possibility

resemble his father.

The child was a delicate infant from its birth; and whether it was the

constant sound of its little wailing cries, or that Wentworth was

jealous of the mother's passionate devotion to the little creature, or

perhaps something of both, but he fairly seemed to hate it as the

months went on. But rude and even brutal though he might be, he could

not rob Pauline of the happiness of her deep love. She turned

resolutely from her husband to her child. What comfort earth had left

for her, she would take there.

The long summer months and the infant pined away, and the beautiful

mother seemed wasting with it. Mr. and Mrs. Grey were out of town for

a few weeks, during which the child became alarmingly low. The

physician gave Pauline little hope. It was too weak to be removed for

change of air. Nature might rally, but nothing more could be done for

it. Pauline attempted to detain her husband by her side, but he shook

her rudely off, saying, "Nonsense, you are always fancying the brat

ill!" and the young mother was left desolate by the little bed of her

dying baby.

We will pass over those hours of agony, for there are no words that

can describe them; but by midnight its young spirit had winged its

flight to Heaven, and the heart-broken mother wept over it in an

anguish few even of parents ever knew.

"That's Mr. Wentworth's step," said the nurse in a low voice to her,

as he passed the nursery door. "Shall I go to him, ma'am?"

"No," said Pauline, "I will go. Do you stay here." And rising firmly,

she went to her husband's room.

He was lying dressed on the bed as she approached. She laid her hand

on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked stupidly at her. She

told him their child was dead--and he laughed a stupid, brutal

laugh--the laugh of intoxication.

Pauline shuddered from head to foot, and returned to the bed of her

dead child; and when Mr. and Mrs. Grey, who had been sent for, arrived

in the morning; they found her as she had lain all night, her arms

clasped round the infant, and moaning wildly, as one who has no hope

on earth.

"Take me--take me home!" she said, as she threw herself into her

mother's arms.

"Never, my child, to be parted from us again," said her father, as he

pressed her passionately to his heart.

They understood each other, and when the funeral was over, without one

word to "Wentworth--for Pauline could bear nothing more--Mr. Grey took

Pauline home.

That night she was in a high fever, and for two or three days she

continued alarmingly ill--but at the end of that time she was enabled

to sit up.

Mr. Grey had, meanwhile, seen Wentworth; but the nature of their

conversation he did not repeat to his daughter.

One afternoon, however, he came into her sick room, and said,

"Pauline, are you strong enough to see your husband. He entreats to

see you, if but for a few minutes." Pauline murmured an acquiescence.

"My dear," said Mr. Grey, "you must leave them--I have promised it;

but Mrs. Granger (the nurse) will remain."

Wentworth presently entered. He seemed calm, for the nurse's eye was

upon him; asked her how she was, and talked for a few minutes, and

then getting up, as if to take Pauline's hand for farewell, he

approached his lips close to her ear, said some low muttered words,

and left the room.

Pauline did not speak for some time after he had withdrawn, and the

nurse receiving no answer to some question she had asked her, went up

to her, and found she had fainted.

Shivering succeeded to fainting fits--faintings to shivering; they

thought that night that she was dying.

A few days after she said, in a quick, low, frightened voice to her

mother,

"Lock the doors mother, quick!"

Much startled, Mrs. Grey did instantly as Pauline requested, and then

her ear, less fine than the sensitive organ of her unhappy daughter,

caught the sound of Wentworth's voice in the hall below.

"Fear not, my Pauline," she said, as she took her in her arms, "your

father will protect you;" but no sound escaped Pauline's lips. She was

evidently intently listening. Soon loud voices were heard, doors

shutting--and then the street door with a bang. Presently Mr. Grey's

measured tread was heard coming up stairs, and next his hand was on

the lock.

"Is he alone?" were the first words Pauline had uttered since she had

heard her husband's voice.

"He is, my child."

"Pauline, fear not, you shall never see him again," were the words of

her father, uttered in a calm but deep voice.

That night Pauline slept tranquilly, for the first time almost since

she had known Wentworth.

She seemed revived in the morning, and Mrs. Grey's hopes rose again,

but only to be dashed once more forever.

The iron had eaten too deeply in her soul. Pauline's slight frame had

no power of renovation. The spirit seemed to grow brighter and

brighter as she wasted away. Unutterable love and gratitude looked out

from her eyes, as she turned them from her father and mother,

alternately; but she was too weak to say much, and gently thus she

faded away to fall asleep upon earth, awakening a purified and

regenerated spirit in heaven.

Her's was "a broken and a contrite heart," and of such is the kingdom

of heaven.

* * * * *

Could mortal agony such as Mr. Grey's be added to, as he followed his

idolized child to the grave?

Yes--even there something was to be added--for Wentworth, as chief

mourner, stepped forward and offered his arm to the unhappy father,

which, even at that moment, and in that presence, Mr. Grey could not

help shaking off.

* * * * *

And what have this childless, broken-hearted couple left of their

beautiful daughter?

A picture--delicate and lovely in its lineaments, but

"To those who see thee not, my words are weak,

To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak."

The canvas must fail in the life-speaking eye; and exquisite though

the pictured image be, oh! how cold to those who knew and idolized the

beautiful original.

Heaven help you, unhappy parents! Your all was wrecked in that one

frail bark. Though friends may sympathize at first, yet they will grow

weary of your grief--for such is human nature. God comfort you! for

there is no earthly hope for those who have lost their only child.

SONNET.--TO A MINIATURE.

Image of loveliness! in thee I view

The bright, the fair, the perfect counterpart,

Of that which love hath graven on my heart.

In every lineament, to nature true,

Methinks I can discern _her_ spirit through

Each feature gleaming; soft, serene and mild,

And gentle as when on me first she smiled,

Stirring my heart with passions strange and new.

Would that my tongue could celebrate the praise

Of thy divine original, or swell

The general chorus, or in lofty lays

Of her celestial grace and beauty tell,

But fancy flutters on her unplumed wing,

None but an angel's harp, an angel's praise should sing.

C. E. T.

WHORTLEBERRYING.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

About the middle of August, the village was honored by repeated visits

from the little ragged population of "Barlow's Settlement," on the

"Barrens," with quantities of whortleberries for sale. "Want any

huckleberries to-day?" was heard all over. You couldn't stir abroad

without some urchin with a smirched face--a tattered coat, whose

skirts swept the dust, showing, evidently, its paternal descent, and

pantaloons patched in the most conspicuous places, more picturesque

than decent--thrusting a basket of the rich fruit into your very face,

with an impudent yell of "huckleberries, sir?" or some little girl,

the edges of whose scanty frock were irregularly scalloped, making a

timid courtesy, saying meekly, "Don't you want some berries to-day,

sir? nice berries, sir, just picked!"

At length Bill Brattle, who is a resident of the settlement, came into

the village, and said in Wilson's bar-room, "that he'd lived on the

Barrens nigh on six years, and he'd _never_ in all that 'ere time seed

sich an allfired grist of huckleberries. Why there was acres on acres

on 'em, and he didn't tell no lie when he said that the airth was

parfectly blue with 'em."

This soon got about, and the consequence was a whortleberry party the

very next day. A number of the young people, of both sexes, started in

several conveyances, and about noon found themselves, after rumbling

through the covered bridge on the Neversink River, climbing slowly up

the steep winding hill that ascends from the east bank of the stream,

and whence was a beautiful view of the valley below.

Now there are many fine views in Sullivan. It is an exceedingly

picturesque county. It has all the charms of precipitous hills,

winding valleys, dark wooded gorges, lovely river-flats, and

meandering streams. It is sufficiently cultivated to have the beauty

of rural landscape softening the forest scenery, without disturbing to

any great degree its wildness and grandeur.

This Neversink valley river, although not among the finest, is

nevertheless a very lovely one--

Beneath--the clear placid stream comes coursing from the north,

through narrow but beautiful flats, in all the pomp of rural wealth,

wrinkled with corn-fields, bearded with rye, and whitened with

buckwheat, imaging old age rejoicing amongst its blessings. Opposite,

rise steep hills in all the stages of cultivation--the black

logging--the grain waving amidst stumps--and the smooth grassy

meadow--whilst at the south, where the little river makes a bold turn,

the sweet landscape is lost in the deep mantle of the aboriginal

forest.

Mastering the hill, the whole cavalcade was soon turning into a stony,

root-tangled, miry road, leading from the turnpike into the heart of

the "Barrens," the territory of the desired fruit. After sinking and

jolting for some little distance, we came to a part of the track which

had been laid over with small parallel logs, close to each other, and

forming what is called in country parlance "a corduroy road". We

"bumped along" (as Jim Stokes, one of our party, a plain young farmer,

expressed it) over this railway of the woods, until our bones seemed

so loose we thought we could hear them rattle at every jolt; and at

last stopped at a large log cabin which had been fitted up as a

tavern.

A fierce eagle, with his head nearly all eye, one striped claw

grasping a bundle of arrows, and the other the American flag, served

for the sign, and was elevated upon a tall hickory sapling, with the

ambitious legend of "Eagle Hotel; by A. Pritchard," flaunting in a

scroll from the ferocious bird's mouth.

A smaller log structure, with one large door, and a square opening

over it, through which a haymow seemed thrusting its brown head, as if

to look abroad, with a warm glow of sunshine upon it, told plainly

that our horses at all events would not suffer.

In a short time we scattered ourselves over the ground in the

vicinity, in search of our fruit. The appearance of things around was

quite characteristic of the region generally. The principal growth

were a dwarf species of oak, called in the language of the country

"scrub-oak"--low shaggy spruces--stunted gnarled pines, and here and

there, particularly in low places, tall hemlocks. The earth was

perfectly bestrewed with loose stones, between which, however, the

moss showed itself, thick and green, with immense quantities of that

beautiful creeping plant called the "ground pine," winding and twining

its rich emerald branching fingers in every direction. Scores of

cattle-paths were twisting and interlacing all around us, giving, in

fact, to the scene, notwithstanding its barrenness, a picturesque

appearance. There were stone-fences also intersecting each other every

where, erected for no earthly purpose, as I could perceive, but to

make way with some part of the vast quantities of stone scattered

about; for as to cultivating the lots, that was entirely out of the

question.

There was some little pasturage, however, and the bells of the

browsing cows were heard tinkling in a pleasing manner, and giving

somewhat of a social character to the desolate landscape.

We were all soon immersed in our search. The bushes were crouching all

around us, bearing their rich clusters of misty blue berries, covered

with the soft beautiful down that vanished at the touch leaving the

berry dark and glittering as the eye of a squirrel. How like is the

down of the fruit to the first gossamer down of the heart--and ah! how

soon the latter also vanishes at the rude touch of the world. The

pure virgin innocence with which God robes the creature when fresh

from His holy hand! why cannot it stay! why, oh why, does it so soon

depart and leave the soul disrobed of its charm and loveliness. Harsh

world, bad world! it destroys all it touches.

Ahem! we'll return.

Merry laughter breaks out from the girls, and playful scrambles occur

amongst them as to who should secure the most fruit. The berries pour

in handfuls in the baskets, which show in some cases signs of

plethora. I tell you what it is, reader, there is sport in picking

whortleberries. Strawberries pout their rich mouths so low that it

gives a sore temptation to the blood to make an assault upon the head,

causing you, when you lift it, to look darkly upon various green spots

dancing about your eyes. Raspberries again, and blackberries, sting

like the dev--I beg pardon, making your hands twitch up like a fit of

St. Vitus' dance. But picking whortleberries is all plain sailing.

Here are the berries and there are your baskets; no getting on your

knees, (although it must be confessed the bushes are somewhat low,)

and no pricking your fingers to the verge of swearing.

We all hunt in couples--a lover and his sweet-heart--and take

different paths. My companion was a tall black-eyed girl, the sight of

whom always made my heart beat quicker, in those unsophisticated days.

Rare sport we had, and so, doubtless, had the rest. Pick, pick, pick

went the fingers--and ruttle, ruttle, ruttle in the baskets ran the

berries. Glorious sport! glorious times! We talked, too, as we

picked--indeed why should we not--we had the whole English language to

ourselves, and no one to disturb us in it--and I tell you what it

is--if people can't talk they had better sell their tongue to the

surgeons and live only through their eyes. What's the use of existing

without talk--ay, and small talk too. Small talk is (as somebody I

believe says, although I am not certain, but no matter) the small

change of society, and who hasn't the small change, ten chances to one

hasn't the large. However, we'll change the theme.

We hear in the distance the hum of male voices, and the light silvery

tones of female, broken in upon by frequent laughter and the music of

the cow-bells, tingle lingle, tink clink--here--there--far off and

near.

All of a sudden, as I part a large thick cluster of whortleberry

bushes, I hear an indescribably quick rattle, amounting to a hum as it

were--fearful and thrilling in the extreme. I start back, but as I do

so I see in the gloom of the bushes two keen blazing orbs, and a long

scarlet tongue quivering and dancing like a curl of fire. "A

rattlesnake--a rattlesnake," I cry involuntarily--my companion gives a

little shriek, and in a moment several of our company, of both sexes,

are hastening toward us. It is a peculiarity or want of ability in the

reptile to dart only its length, and my first recoil had placed me, I

knew, beyond its reach. But there stood the leafy den, studded all

over with a profusion of beautiful gems, and although the rattle had

ceased, there to a certainty was the enraged monster, swelling

doubtless in his yellow venom; for it is another trait of the

crawling, poisonous demons never to desert their post, (rather a good

trait, by the way, not always possessed by those erect rattlesnakes,

men,) and we must get rid of the dragon before we could come at the

fruit. Well! what was to be done! We couldn't think of leaving the

field--that would be too bad--to be driven off by a snake, and before

the eyes of our Dulcineas too--it couldn't be thought of! So one of us

cuts a pole with a crotch at the end--the rest of us arm ourselves

with stones and sticks, and then the poleman commences his attack upon

the bush. Ha! that was a thrust, well aimed! hear him rattle,

hum-m-m--how the bush flutters! he sprang then! That was a good

thrust! Jupiter, how he rattles! see, see, see, there are his eyes!

ugh! there's his tongue! now he darts out his head and neck! Heavens!

what malignant rage and ferocity. Keep back, girls! don't be too

curious to see! Thrust him again! How he makes the bush flutter! how

his eyes shoot around! how his tongue darts in and out--and

whir-r-r-r-r-r--how his rattles shake. Now he comes out, head up,

tongue out, eyes like coals of fire--give him the stones now--a full

battery of them! Halloo! what's Sloan about there with his crotched

pole. Well planted, by Jupiter! right around his neck. Ha! ha! ha! how

he twists and turns and writhes about--how he would like to bite! how

he would like to strike some of that tawny poison of his into our

veins! Yes, yes, your snake-ship! but it wont do! "you can't come it,"

as Loafing Jim says, "no how you can fix it."

He's a tremendous snake though--full four feet! u-g-h! only think of

his crawling around and catching hold of the calf of your leg! Not so

pleasant as picking whortleberries, to say the least of it. See his

gray mottled skin! though it looks beautiful, flashing in the rays of

the sun--and then the ribbed white of his undershape! However, what

shall we do with him! Sloan, hold him tight now, and I'll aim at his

head. Good sharp stone this--whew--well aimed, although I say it--I

think he must have felt it this time. Halloo! another stone--from

Wescott. I fancy that made his head ache! And that one has crushed it

as flat as a--griddle-cake.

We again, after this terrific battle, (a dozen against one though I

must confess,) scatter among the bushes. Awful onslaughts are again

made amongst the berries, and our baskets (those at all events in

sight) are plumping up with the delicious, ripe, azure balls. I have

forgotten to mention, though, that it is a very warm day. The sky is

of a pale tint, as if the bright, pure, deep blue had been blanched

out by the heat; and all around the horizon are wan thunder-caps

thrusting up their peaks and summits. It looks decidedly thunderish.

What's that again! another alarm? How that girl does scream out there!

What on earth is the matter! We rush around a sand-bank, looking warm

and yellow in the sun, and we see the cause of the outbreak. There is

Caroline G. shrinking back as if she would like to evaporate into thin

air, and executing a series of shrieks, with her open mouth, of the

most thrilling character. Young Mason is a little in front, with a

knotted stick, doubtless just picked up, whilst some ten or twelve

rods in advance is a great shaggy black bear, very coolly helping

himself to the contents of the two baskets hitherto borne by the

couple, giving himself time, however, every now and then to look out

of his little black eyes at the rightful owners, with rather a

spiteful expression, but protruding at the same time his red tongue,

like a clown at the circus, as if enjoying the joke of their picking

and he eating. Afterward I learned that they had deposited their

baskets on the ground under a loaded bush, for greater facility in

securing the fruit, when suddenly they heard a blow and a snort, and

looking where the queer sounds came from, they saw his Bruinship's

white teeth and black phiz within a foot or two of them, directly over

the bush. Abandoning their baskets, they retreated in double quick

time, and while Mason sought and found a club for defence, Caroline

made haste to clear her voice for the most piercing efforts, and

succeeded in performing a succession of sustained vocal flights, that

a steam whistle couldn't much more than match. The sight as we came up

was in truth somewhat alarming, but Bruin didn't seem disposed to be

hostile except against the whortleberries, which he certainly made

disappear in the most summary manner; so we, after hushing with

difficulty Caroline's steam whistle, (I beg her pardon,) stood and

watched him. After he had discussed the contents of the baskets, he

again looked at us, and, rearing himself upon his hind legs, with his

fore paws hanging down like a dancing Shaker, made two or three

awkward movements, as if dancing an extempore hornpipe, either in

triumph or to thank us for his dinner; he next opened his great jaws

in resemblance to a laugh, again thrust out his tongue, saying plainly

by it, "hadn't you better pick some more whortleberries," then

deliberately fell upon his fore feet and stalked gravely and solemnly

away. As for ourselves, we went where he didn't.

It wanted now about an hour to sundown, and this was the time agreed

upon by all of us to reunite at Pritchard's and start for home. The

beautiful charm of light and shade cast by the slanting rays already

began to rest upon the scene. The small oaks were glowing through and

through--the thick spruces were kindled up in their outer edges--the

patches of moss looked like carpets of gold spread by the little genii

of the woods--the whortleberry bushes were drenched in rich radiance,

the fruit seeming like the concentrated radiance in the act of

dropping--whilst the straggling, tall, surly grenadiers of hemlocks

had put on high-pointed yellow caps, with rays streaking through their

branches like muskets. The cow-bells were now tinkling everywhere,

striking in an odd jumble of tones--tingle ling, tingle ling ting

tingle--as their owners collected together to eat their way to their

respective milking places--and all told us that the day was drawing to

a close. Independently of this, a dark crag of cloud was lifting

itself in the southwest, with a pale glance of lightning shooting out

of it occasionally, hinting very strongly of an approaching

thunder-storm.

In about half an hour we were all re-assembled at Pritchard's. I

believe I have not described the scenery around this little log

tavern. There was a ravine at some little distance from it, densely

clothed with forest. Through it a stream found its way. Directly

opposite the side porch, the ravine spread widely on each side,

shaping a broad basin of water, and then, contracting again, left a

narrow throat across which a dam had been thrown. Over this dam the

stream poured in a fall of glittering silver, of about ten feet, and

then, pursuing its way through the "Barrens," fell into the Sheldrake

Brook several miles below. Here, at the fall, Pritchard had erected a

saw-mill.

Now people don't generally think there is any thing very picturesque

about saw-mills, but I do. The weather-beaten boards of the low

structure, some hanging awry, some with great knot-holes, as if they

were gifted with orbs of vision, or were placed there for the mill to

breathe through, some fractured, as if the saw had at times become

outrageous at being always shut up and made to work there for other

people, and had dashed against them, determined to gain its

liberty--whilst some seem as if they had become so tantalized by the

continual jar of the machinery, that they had loosened their nails,

and had set up a clatter and shake themselves in opposition--these are

quite picturesque. Then the broad opening in front, exposing the

glittering saw bobbing up and down, and pushing its sharp teeth right

through the bowels of the great peeled log fastened with iron claws to

the sliding platform beneath--the gallows-like frame in which the saw

works--the great strap belonging to the machinery issuing out of one

corner and gliding into another--the sawyer himself, in a red shirt,

now wheeling the log into its place with his handspike and fastening

it--and now lifting the gate by the handle protruding near him--the

axe leaning at one side and the rifle at the other--the loose floor

covered with saw-dust--the stained rafters above with boards laid

across for a loft--the dark sloping slab-roof--the great black wheel

continually at war with the water, which, dashing bravely against it,

finds itself carried off its feet into the buckets, and whirled half

around, and then coolly dismissed into the stream below--the long

flume through which the water rushes to the unequal fray, and--what

next!

Then the pond, too, is not to be overlooked. There are generally some

twenty or thirty logs floating in one corner, close to each other, and

breaking out into great commotion every time the gate is hoisted--the

otter is now and then seen gliding in the farther nooks--and a quick

eye may catch, particularly about the dam, where he generally burrows,

a glimpse of the musk-rat as he dives down. Now and then too the wild

duck will push his beautiful shape with his bright feet through

it--the snipe will alight and "teter," as the children say, along the

banks--the woodcock will show his brownish red bosom amongst the reeds

as he comes to stick his long bill into the black ooze for sucking, as

dock-boys stick straws into molasses hogsheads--and once in a great

while, the sawyer, if he's wide awake, will see, in the Spring or

Fall, the wild goose leaving his migrating wedge overhead, and diving

and fluttering about in it, as a momentary bathing place, and to rest

for a time his throat, hoarse with uttering his laughably wise and

solemn "honk, honk." Nor must the ragged and smirched-faced boys be

forgotten, eternally on the logs, or the banks, or in the leaky scow,

with their twine and pin-hooks catching "spawney-cooks," and

"bull-heads" as worthless as themselves, and as if that were their

only business in life. And then the streak of saw-dust running along

in the midst of the brook below, and forming yellow nooks to imprison

bubbles and sticks and leaves and what not, every now and then making

a jet outward and joining the main body--and lastly the saw-mill yard,

with its boards, white, dark and golden, piled up in great masses,

with narrow lanes running through--and gray glistening logs, with

their bark coats off, waiting their turn to be "boarded."

The cloud had now risen higher, with its ragged pointed edges, and

murky bosom--sharper lightning flashed athwart it, sometimes in

trickling streaks, and sometimes in broad glances, whilst low growls

of thunder were every now and then heard. The sun was already

swallowed up--and a strange, unnatural, ghastly glare was upon every

object. The atmosphere was motionless--not a stir in the thickets

around, not a movement in the forest at the ravine. Through the solemn

silence the crash of the falling water came upon the ear, and its

gleam was caught against the black background of the cloud. It really

seemed as if Nature held her breath in anticipating terror. Higher and

higher rose the cloud--fiercer and fiercer flashed the lightning,

sterner and sterner came the peals of the solemn thunder. Still Nature

held her breath, still fear deep and brooding reigned. The wild tint

still was spread over all things--the pines and hemlocks near at hand

seeming blanched with affright beneath it. Suddenly a darkness smote

the air--a mighty rush was heard--the trees seemed falling upon their

faces in convulsions, and with a shock as if the atmosphere had been

turned into a precipitated mountain, amidst a blinding flash and

tearing, splitting roar, onward swept the blast. Another

flash--another roar--then tumbled the great sheeted rain. Like blows

of the hammer on the anvil beat it on the water--like the smitings of

a mounted host trampled it upon the roof--like the spray flying from

the cataract smoked it upon the earth. The fierce elements of fire

and air and water were now at the climax of their strife--the dark

blended shadow of the banners under which they fought almost blotting

out the view. Occasionally glimpses of writhing branches could be

seen, but only for a moment--all again was dim and obscure, with the

tremendous sights and sounds of the storm dazzling the eye and

stunning the ear. The lightning would flash with intolerable

brilliancy, and immediately would follow the thunder with a rattling

leap as if springing from its lair, and then with a deafening, awful

weight, as if it had fallen and been splintered into pieces in the

sky. Then would re-open the steady deep boom of the rain, and the

stern rushing of the chainless wind. At length the air became

clearer--the lightning glared at less frequent intervals--the thunder

became more rolling and distant, and the tramp of the rain upon the

roof less violent. The watery streaks in the atmosphere waxed

finer--outlines of objects began to be defined--till suddenly, as a

growl of thunder died away in the east, a rich thread of light ran

along the landscape, that looked out smiling through its tears; and

thronging out into the damp fresh, sweet air, where the delicate

gauze-like rain was glittering and trembling, we saw on one hand the

great sun looking from a space of glowing sky upon the scene, and

dashing upon the parting clouds the most superb and gorgeous

hues--whilst on the other smiled the lovely rainbow, the Ariel of the

tempest, spanning the black cloud and soaring over the illuminated

earth, like Hope spreading her brilliant halo over the Christian's

brow, and brightening with her beautiful presence his impending death.

We all concluded to wait for the moon to rise before we started for

home, and in the meanwhile another cloud arose and made demonstration.

This storm, however, was neither so long nor so violent as the first,

and we found attraction in viewing the lightning striking into ghastly

convulsions the landscape--so that the falling rain--the bowed

trees--the drenched earth--the streaked mill, and the gleaming

water-fall were opened to our view for an instant, and then dropped as

it were again into the blackness. But after a while the sky cleared

its forehead of all its frowns--the broad moon wheeled up--and in her

rich glory we again moved slowly along the rough road, until we came

to the smooth turnpike, where we dashed along homeward, with the cool,

scented air in our faces, and the sweet smile of the sun's gentle and

lovely sister resting all about us, making the magnificent Night

appear like Day with a veil of softening silver over his dazzling

brow.

STANZAS.

Be firm, and be cheerful. The creature who lightens

The natural burdens of life when he may,

Who smiles at small evils, enhances and brightens

The pleasures which Heaven has spread in his way.

Then why yield your spirits to care and to sorrow?

Rejoice in the present, and smile while you may;

Nor, by thinking of woes which _may_ spring up to-morrow,

Lose the blessings which Heaven _has_ granted to-day.

EURYDICE.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

With heart that thrilled to every earnest line,

I had been reading o'er that antique story,

Wherein the youth half human, half divine,

Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory,

Child of the Sun, with music's pleading spell,

In Pluto's palace swept, for love, his golden shell!

And in the wild, sweet legend, dimly traced,

My own heart's history unfolded seemed:--

Ah! lost one! by thy lover-minstrel graced

With homage pure as ever woman dreamed,

Too fondly worshiped, since such fate befell,

Was it not sweet to die--because beloved too well?

The scene is round me!--Throned amid the gloom,

As a flower smiles on AEtna's fatal breast,

Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom;

And near--of Orpheus' soul, oh! idol blest!--

While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light,

I see _thy_ meek, fair form dawn through that lurid night!

I see the glorious boy--his dark locks wreathing

Wildly the wan and spiritual brow,

His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing;

His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love's loyal vow;

I see him bend on _thee_ that eloquent glance,

The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance!

I see his face, with more than mortal beauty

Kindling, as armed with that sweet lyre alone,

Pledged to a holy and heroic duty,

He stands serene before the awful throne,

And looks on Hades' horrors with clear eyes,

Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh!

Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings,

As if a prisoned angel--pleading there

For life and love--were fettered 'neath the strings,

And poured his passionate soul upon the air!

Anon, it clangs with wild, exultant swell,

Till the full paean peals triumphantly through Hell!

And thou--thy pale hands meekly locked before thee--

Thy sad eyes drinking _life_ from _his_ dear gaze--

Thy lips apart--thy hair a halo o'er thee,

Trailing around thy throat its golden maze--

Thus--with all words in passionate silence dying--

Within thy _soul_ I hear Love's eager voice replying--

"Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these are gazing,

Charmed into statues by thy God-taught strain,

I--I alone, to thy dear face upraising

My tearful glance, the life of life regain!

For every tone that steals into my heart

Doth to its worn, weak pulse a mighty power impart.

Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floats

Through the dread realm, divine with truth and grace,

See, dear one! how the chain of linked notes

Has fettered every spirit in its place!

Even Death, beside me, still and helpless lies;

And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold eyes.

Still, mine own Orpheus, sweep the golden lyre!

Ah! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine,

With clasped hands, and eyes whose azore fire

Gleams through quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth lean

Her graceful head upon her stern lord's breast,

Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest?

Play my proud minstrel! strike the chords again!

Lo! Victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill!

For Pluto turns relenting to the strain--

He waves his hand--he speaks his awful will!

My glorious Greek! lead on; but ah! _still_ lend

Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend!

Think not of me! Think rather of the time,

When moved by thy resistless melody,

To the strange magic of a song sublime,

Thy argo grandly glided to the sea!

And in the majesty Minerva gave,

The graceful galley swept, with joy, the sounding wave!

Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian trees,

Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound,

Swayed by a tuneful and enchanted breeze,

March to slow music o'er th' astonished ground--

Grove after grove descending from the hills,

While round thee weave their dance the glad, harmonious rills.

Think not of me! Ha! by thy mighty sire,

My lord, my king! recall the dread behest!

Turn not--ah! turn not back those eyes of fire!

Oh! lost, forever lost! undone! unblest!

I faint, I die!--the serpent's fang once more

Is here!--nay, grieve not thus! Life but _not Love_ is o'er!

THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT WIND.

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

When the day-king is descending

On the blue hill's breast to lie,

And some spirit-artist blending

On the flushed and bending sky

All the rainbow's hues, I listen

To the breeze, while in my eye

Tears of bitter anguish glisten,

As I think of days gone by.

Change, relentless change is lighting

On the brow of young and fair,

And with iron hand is writing

Tales of grief and sorrow there.

On life's journey friends have faltered,

And beside its pathway lie,

But that breeze, with voice unaltered,

Sings as in the days gone by.

Sings old songs to soothe the anguish

Of a heart whose hopes are flown;

Cheering one condemned to languish

In this weary world alone;

Tells old tales of loved ones o'er me,

Dearest ones, remembered well,

That have passed away before me,

In a brighter land to dwell.

MAJOR-GENERAL WORTH.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON, AUTHOR OF "THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES," ETC.

All persons naturally exhibit a great desire to become acquainted with

the events of the lives of those individuals who have made themselves

or their country illustrious. It is very pleasant to inquire into the

nature of the studies which matured their minds, to examine the

incidents of their early career, and follow them through the obscurer

portions of their lives for the purpose of ascertaining if the man

corresponds with the idea we have formed of him.

Gen. Worth has recently attracted so much attention, and the events of

his whole life have been so stirring, that this is peculiarly the case

with him. No one can think without interest of one who, while a boy

almost, opposed the British veterans at Chippewa and Lundy's Lane, and

in his manhood won a yet higher reputation amid the hamacs of Florida,

and in front of the batteries of Molino del Rey and Monterey. It is,

however, a matter of much regret that of Worth's early history and

family annals but little is known. It is true, no man in the army has

been the theme of so much camp-fire gossip, or the hero of so many

gratuitous fabrications; but we are able to learn nothing of him

previous to his entry into the service. A thousand anecdotes without

any basis in truth have been told of him, altogether to no purpose;

for one who has so many real claims to distinction need never appeal

to factitious honors.

Gen. Worth, at the commencement of the last war with Great Britain, is

said to have been a resident of Albany, N. Y., and to have been

engaged in commercial pursuits. Animated by the feeling of patriotism

which pervaded the whole people, he left the desk and ledger, and is

said to have enlisted in the 2nd regiment of artillery, then commanded

by Col. Izard, afterward a general officer of distinction. The lieut.

colonel of one of the battalions of this regiment was Winfield Scott,

the attention of whom Worth is said soon to have attracted. Col. Scott

is said to have exerted himself to procure him a commission, and to

have taken care of his advancement. This may or may not be true; it is

sure, however, that Worth first appears in a prominent position in the

military annals of the United States as the aid-de-camp and protege of

General Scott, at the battle of Chippewa, where Scott was a brigadier.

Worth was his aid, having in the interim become a first lieutenant.

No man in America is ignorant of the events of that day, which

retrieved the disgrace of Hull's surrender, and reflected the greatest

honor on all the participants in its events. For his gallantry and

good conduct, Mr. Madison bestowed on Lieut. Worth the brevet of

captain; and he was mentioned in the highest terms in the general

orders of the officers under whom he served. The brevet of Worth was

announced to the army and nation in the same order which told of the

promotion of McNeil, Jessup, Towson, and Leavenworth. Strangely

enough, though death has been busy with the officers of the last war,

all who were breveted for their services on that occasion, with one

or two exceptions, are now alive. The battle of Chippewa occurred on

the 5th of July, 1814, and was the dale of Worth's first brevet.

Though a brevet captain, Worth continued with Scott in the important

position of aid-de-camp, and served in that capacity at Lundy's Lane,

in the battle of July 25th, 1814. On that occasion he distinguished

himself in the highest degree, and won the reputation his whole

subsequent career has confirmed, of coolness, decision, and activity.

During this engagement the whole British force was thrown on the 9th

foot, commanded by the veteran Lieut. Col. Leavenworth. This officer

sent for aid to Gen. Scott, who on that occasion gave Gen. Taylor the

example after which that gallant general acted at Buena Vesta. He

repaired to the menaced point with the strong reinforcement of his own

person and aid, and had the proud satisfaction of seeing the attacking

column beaten back, and the general who led it made prisoner. At the

moment of success, however, both Scott and Capt. Worth fell wounded

severely. The country appreciated their services, and each received

from Mr. Madison the brevet of another grade, with date from the day

of the battle. Major Worth soon recovered, but, attached to Gen.

Scott's person, accompanied him southward, as soon as the wound of the

latter enabled him to bear the fatigue of travel.

When peace came Worth was a captain in the line and a major by brevet,

with which rank he was assigned to the military command of the corps

of Cadets at West Point. This appointment, ever conferred on men of

talent, is the highest compliment an officer of the service of the

United States can receive in time of peace. To Worth it was doubly

grateful, because he was not an _eleve_ of the institution. Ten years

after the battle of Niagara, Major Worth was breveted a lieutenant

colonel, and when in 1832 the ordnance corps was established, he

became one of its majors. In July, 1832, on the organization of the

8th infantry, Lieut. Col. Worth was appointed to its colonelcy.

Hitherto we have seen Worth in a subordinate position, where he was

unable to exhibit the highest qualification of a soldier, that of

command. Since his entry into the service he had been either an

officer of the staff, or separated from troops. He was now called on

to participate in far more stirring scenes. The war against the

Seminoles in Florida had long been a subject of great anxiety to both

the government and the people, and thither Worth was ordered, after a

brief but effective tour of service on the northern frontier, then

infested by the Canadian insurgents. At first he acted subordinately

to the late Gen. Armistead, but, on the retirement of that officer,

assumed command. The war was prosecuted by him with new vigor, and the

Indians defeated ultimately at Pilaklakaha, near the St. John, April

17, 1842. This fight was virtually the termination of the war, the

enemy never again having shown himself in force. Gen. Worth was highly

complimented for his services on this occasion, and received the

brevet of brigadier general.

During the season of peace which followed Gen. Worth remained almost

constantly with his regiment, which more than once changed its

station; and when the contest with Mexico began, reported to Gen.

Taylor at Corpus Christi. His situation here was peculiar, and he

became involved in a dispute in relation to precedence and command

with the then Col. Twiggs, of the 2nd dragoons. The latter officer was

by several years Worth's senior in the line, and, according to the

usual opinion in the army, entitled to command, though many of the

most accomplished soldiers of the service thought the brevet of Worth,

on this occasion at least, where the _corps d'armee_ was made up of

detachments, valid as a commission. This dispute became so serious

that Gen. Taylor interfered, and having sustained Col. Twiggs, Gen.

Worth immediately tendered his resignation to the President.

There is no doubt but that the decision in favor of Gen. Twiggs was

correct, and that Worth was radically wrong in his conception of the

effect of his brevet. He, however, had been brought up under the eye

of Gen. Scott, who entertained the same ideas on this subject, and

who, years before, under precisely similar circumstances, had resigned

his commission. Gen. Worth having proceeded from the Rio Grande to

Washington, the President refused to accept his resignation, and he

returned at once to the army.

The resignation of Worth was a most untoward circumstance, for during

his absence from the army hostilities commenced, and he lost all

participation in the battles of Palo Alto and La Resaca.

When, after the capture of Matamoras, the army again advanced, Worth

had resumed his post, and acquiesced cheerfully in the decision which

had been given against him. The laurels he had not grasped on the Rio

Grande were won in front of the batteries of _La Loma de la

Independencia_, and in the streets of Monterey. Amid the countless

feats of daring recorded by military history, none will be found to

surpass his achievements in the slow, painful, but bold entry he

effected through a city swarming with defenders, to the very _plaza_.

For his gallantry on this occasion he received the brevet of major

general, and, with the exception of Generals Scott and Taylor, is

believed to be the only officer in the service who has received three

war-brevets. Gen. Worth from this time became one of the national

idols.

When Gen. Scott assumed command of the expedition against Vera Cruz

and the capital, one of his first acts was to order Gen. Worth and the

remnant of his division to join him. The general-in-chief remembered

the events, on the northern frontier, of 1814, and anticipated much in

Mexico. He was not disappointed in this expectation, for at Vera Cruz

and in the valley of Mexico, his old aid did not disappoint him, and

proved that service had but matured the judgment of the soldier of

Chippewa and Niagara.

It was at _Molino del Rey_ that Worth displayed his powers with most

brilliancy. When it became evident that the city of Mexico must be

taken by force, a prominent position was assigned to Gen. Worth, who,

with his division and Cadwallader's brigade, was ordered to carry the

strong position of Molino del Rey, and destroy its defences. This spot

is famous in Mexican history as _Casas Matas_, and and is the scene of

the famous _plan_, or revolution, of Feb. 2, 1823, by virtue of which

a republican form of government may be said to exist in Mexico. It

lies westward of Chapultepec, the old palace of the Aztec kings, and

from the nature of its position, and the careful manner in which it

was fortified, was a position of great strength. It lay at the foot of

a rapid declivity, enfiladed by the fire of Chapultepec, and so

situated, that not a shot could be discharged but must fall into an

assailing column.

Under these great difficulties the works were carried, Worth all the

while marching with the column, and directing the operations of the

horse artillery and infantry of which it was composed. In respect to

this part of the operations in front of Mexico Gen. Scott adopted,

without comment, the report of Gen. Worth. This is a rare compliment,

and proceeding from such a person as Scott should be highly estimated.

After the capture of the city of Mexico, difficulties occurred between

Gen. Worth and the general-in-chief, and a friendship of thirty-five

years was apparently terminated. The matter is now the subject of

consideration before a competent tribunal, and _non nobis tantas

componerelites_.

Gen. Worth is yet in Mexico. His age is about fifty-six or eight, and

in his personal appearance are mingled the bearing of the soldier and

of the gentleman. The excellent portrait given of him is from a

Daguerreotype by Mr. Clarke, of New York.

ENCOURAGEMENT.

When first peeps out from earth the modest vine,

Asking but little space to live and grow,

How easily some step, without design,

May crush the being from a thing so low!

But let the hand that doth delight to show

Support to feebleness, the tendril twine

Around some lattice-work, and 'twill bestow

Its thanks in fragrance, and with blossoms shine.

And thus, when Genius first puts forth its shoot--

So timid, that it scarce dare ask to live--

The tender germ, if trodden under foot,

Shrinks back again to its undying root;

While kindly training bids it upward strive,

And to the future flowers immortal give. E. C. KINNEY.

THE CHANGED AND THE UNCHANGED.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.

CHAPTER I.

"Report says that my queenly cousin is to lay aside her absolute

sceptre, and submit to a lord and master," said George Mason, to his

cousin, Emily Earl, as she took his arm for an evening walk.

"If you mean that I am to be married, that is a report which truth

does not require me to contradict," said the young lady, in a tone

adapted to repress the familiar manner of her companion. He had just

returned from a long absence in a foreign land. His early youth had

been passed in his uncle's family. He left his cousin a beautiful

girl. He found her on his return a still more beautiful woman.

"I am very anxious," said he, with a slight change of manner, "to see

the man who has drawn so splendid a prize. Is he like the picture you

drew of the man you would marry, as we sat by the willow brook from

the rising of the moon to its meridian? You remember that most

beautiful night?"

"It is not desirable to remember all the follies of childhood," said

Emily, coldly. Mason was silent. It was plain that they were no longer

what they had been, brother and sister.

After walking for some distance in silence, Emily remarked, in a tone

inviting conversation, "You must have seen a great deal of the world."

"I have had some means of observation," he replied, "but I have seen

nothing to wean me from this spot, and from my friends here."

"Your friends are obliged to you for the compliment."

"I did not intend the remark as a compliment." Again there was an

interval of silence. "I have been absent four years," said Mason, as

though speaking to himself, "and I am not conscious of any change, so

far as my feelings are concerned. The same persons and things which I

then loved, I love now. The same views of life which I then cherished

I cherish now."

"Experience and knowledge of the world," said Emily, "ought to give

wisdom."

"I am so perverse as to regard it as wisdom to hold on to the dreams

of our early days."

"Our views ought, it seems to me, to change as we grow older."

"I am not sure that we ought to grow old, so far as our feelings are

concerned."

"You would engage in the vain effort to retain the dews and freshness

of morning, after the sun has arisen with a burning heat."

"I believe the dew of our youth may be preserved even until old age."

"I am surprised that acquaintance with the world has not corrected

your views of life. One would think that you had lived in entire

seclusion."

"I am surprised that the romantic, warm-hearted Emily Earl should

become the worldly-wise lecturer of her cousin."

"We had better speak upon some other subject. Had you a pleasant

voyage homeward?"

"Yes. It could not be otherwise, when my face was toward 'my own, my

native land,' and the friends so fresh in my remembrance."

A slight shade of displeasure flitted across Emily's features. She

made no remark.

"Where is Susan Grey?" said Mason.

"She is dead."

"Indeed! She was just my own age. She was a single-hearted girl."

"She often inquired for you. You never fancied yourself in love with

her?"

"No. Why that question?"

"She was under the impression that we were engaged, and seemed quite

relieved when I informed her that she was mistaken."

"What has become of Mary Carver?"

"She is married, and lives in that house," pointing to a miserable hut

near at hand.

"Is it possible?"

"Her husband is intemperate. It was a clandestine marriage--a love

match, you know."

"Was her husband intemperate when she married him?"

"Not habitually so. He was so very romantic and devoted to her; so

that, I suppose, she thought she could reform him."

"What has become of Mr. Ralston, your old friend?" admirer, he would

have said, but he deemed it unwise.

"He is a lawyer here, in a small way. I believe they think of sending

him to Congress."

"Is he married?"

"No."

"I thought he seemed to be attached to you; at least I hoped that he

would become my cousin."

"I will answer your questions in regard to others--my own affairs do

not require remark."

This rebuke, so unlike any thing he had ever received from his cousin,

led him to fix his gaze upon her countenance, as if to make sure of

her identity. There could be no mistake. There was the same brilliant

eye, the same faultless features on which he had gazed in former

years. A conciliating smile led him to resume his inquiries.

"Is Eliza Austin married?" His voice, as he asked this question, was

far from natural, perhaps in consequence of the agitation which the

rebuke just spoken of had occasioned.

"No; she lives somewhere in the village, I don't know exactly where."

"Do you ever see her?"

"Yes; she lives with her aunt, who sometimes washes for us, so that I

see her niece occasionally."

"Why does she live with her aunt?"

"Her mother died soon after you went away."

"Eliza still lives in the village, then?" To this very unnecessary

question his cousin bowed in reply. Few words more passed between them

during the remainder of their walk.

"You do not stay out as late as you used to do," said Mrs. Earl, as

they entered the parlor.

"We are no longer children," said Emily. Mason could scarcely repress

an audible sigh, as those words fell from her lips. At an early hour,

he repaired to his chamber.

CHAPTER II.

George Mason was left an orphan in his early youth. He then became a

member of his uncle's family, and the constant companion of his cousin

Emily. He desired no society but hers. Her slightly imperious temper

did not interfere with the growth of his affection. She had a sister's

place in his glowing heart. He was in some sense her teacher, and she

caught something of his romantic nature. Of the little circle of her

associates, he was the idol.